Split Infinity

CHAPTER 17 - Tourney

He made it. The holder of Rung Five was Hair, who of course was almost bald. He was a well-balanced player, without many great strengths, but also without many weaknesses. That made him hard to handle on the grid. Hair would be playing to Stile’s liabilities, not to his own strengths, and have a pretty good chance to land an advantageous game.

Hair studied Stile. “You look tired,” he remarked.

“Apt observation,” Stile agreed. Naturally his opponent knew all about yesterday’s marathon run. Hair would capitalize on this, choosing the PHYSICAL column. Stile would negate this by going into MACHINE- or ANiMAL-assisted, so as not to have to depend on his own diminished strength. Of course Hair would anticipate that, and shift his column, perhaps into ART. He was good on the theremin. Stile was quite ready to challenge in the classification of music, but would prefer a normal, hand-powered instrument. So he would be better off in TOOL, where he could wind up with some-thing like a trombone or a harmonica. In fact, the harmonica would be very nice right now, because he had been practicing it in the other frame.

But Hair had after all stuck with PHYSICAL, out-maneuvering him. 1B, tool-assisted physical games. The second grid appeared as the murmur of the audience rose.

Stile had the letter facet again. If he chose INDIVIDUAL, he could get caught in another endurance or strength exercise, and he was hardly up to it. If Hair selected BALL, it might work out to bowling, where Stile could win—or shot-put, where he could not. Hair was no Hulk, but he could heave an object a fair distance.

1. BALL 2. VEHICLE 3. WEAPON 4. ATHLETIC 5. GENERAL

A. INDIVIDUAL B. INTERACTIVE

Or he could go for VEHICLE, and they would be in a canoe race or bike race or skating race. Stile was fast on skates, but his legs were tired; this was not his day. WEAPONS was no better. He wasn’t ready to bend a powerful bow to shoot at a target 300 meters distant. His aim would surely suffer. His separated cartilage in the rib cage gave a twinge; no, he could not draw a bowl But throwing the javelin or hammer was no better. Nor was pole-vaulting—God, no!—in the next box, or skiing, or even sledding. He pictured himself whomping belly first on a small sled and shooting the ice rap-ids, and his rib cage gave a worse twinge. Only in GENERAL did he have a fair chance, with things like hopscotch, horseshoes, or jacks. Or tiddlywinks— major Games had been won and lost in that game, with the audience as avidly breathless as it would have been for a saber match. Stile was expert in tiddlywinks—but knew he would not get to play them this time.

So it had to be INTERACTIVE. That had its pitfalls too, but in general skill was more important than power.

It came up IB. Interactive ball games. Good—Stile was skilled in most of these, and should be able to take Hair—so long as Hair did not catch on to his special liabilities, like the ribs or the bruised left hand. Oh, that wooden head of the golem, that he had so blithely punched!

They set up the nine-box subgrid, filling in with marbles, jeu de boules, croquet, billiards, tennis, table-soccer, Ping-Pong, soccer and Earthball. The last would be a disaster; Stile played to avoid it, and the result was Ping-Pong.

Well, not good, but not bad. Stile was excellent at this sport, and his right hand remained good, but he would be off his game today. Hair was good enough to take advantage of Stile’s present weaknesses—if he caught on to them in time.

They adjourned to the table-games gym. A number of games were in progress—pool, table-soccer, and of course Ping-Pong—but these were quickly wrapped up when the players saw who was coming. Stile’s move up the ladder was already big news. They took a table, picked up the paddles, and volleyed. Several minutes were permitted for limbering prior to the game.

“Time,” the machine scorekeeper announced. “Select service.”

They did it in the archaic, time-honored fashion, similar to that for the game of Go. Hair took the ball, put it under the table in one hand, and spread his arms apart. Stile chose the right—and got it. He had the first serve.

It was a good break for him, for Stile was an offensive player whose serve was integral to his strategy. He needed to take and keep the initiative, to make up for his lack of reach. He would not be able to win points directly from his serve, against a player of Hair’s caliber, but he could certainly put the man safely on the defensive. That was the way Stile liked it. It gave him necessary options. Of course the serve would change every five points—but once he had the lead, he could ride through to victory without pushing himself. Considering his present liabilities, that was important.

Stile served, a cross-court top-spin ball, fast and low over the net, striking neatly two centimeters from the back edge of the table. Hair returned it cautiously with an undercut to the center of Stile’s court. The game was on.

Stile backhanded the ball with a flick of the wrist, to Hair’s forehand court. Move it about, keep the other player reaching! Never let the opponent get set for his own strategy. Hair returned it to Stile’s forehand, some-what high and shaky, with almost no spin. Good—he was nervous! That diminished Stile’s own tension. This was going his way. Stile made a forehand slam and took the point.

Stile served again the moment he had the ball, back-hand crosscourt with an undercut. Hair flubbed it again. The score was 2-0. Hair was more visibly nervous now. Excellent. The psychology of nervousness was important in any competition.

But Hair’s next return, played too low, nevertheless dribbled over the net, unreturnable. 2-1. These lucky shots occurred; it was usually of no significance. Only when the luck played obvious favorites, as sometimes happened despite the assurances of the experts on probability, was it a critical factor. Stile fired in a side-spin, and Hair sent it wide of the table. 3-1.

The next volley went longer, but Stile finally put it away with a good cross-court slam. 4-1. This game was not going to be a problem.

Now it was Hair’s serve. He uncorked a weak drop-shot that barely cleared the end of the table; Stile, expecting a harder shot, almost muffed it. But his return was a setup, and Hair put it away for the point. 2-^4. In Ping-Pong the server’s score was always listed first.

There was something funny about Hair’s style, and in moments he took two more points. Stile bore down, overreached himself, and lost another. Now he was behind. Carelessness!

But the run continued. Stile suddenly seemed unable to do right. In moments he was behind 4-10, having lost nine points in a row, his own serve no longer helping him.

What was wrong? He had started well, then lost it. Had fatigue undercut him more than he realized, interfering with his precision? Stile didn’t think so. He was playing well enough to win—except that he was losing. Why?

He served a dropshot that barely cleared the table. Hair returned it too softly; it was a setup shot that Stile swiftly put away. 5-10. Strange that the return had been so soft; Hair knew better.

Then Stile caught on. Hair was using a random-variable surface paddle! This was legal, as standards for table-tennis bats had never been instituted; but also tricky, for precision placement was difficult. The variations of bounce were not great, which was why it had not been obvious, but Stile should have noticed it before. That was how his fatigue let him down; he had not been alert to the unexpected.

In an instant Stile knew what he had to do. The variable-surface returns forced Hair to play conservatively, keeping his shots well within the margin of safety, though that sometimes set shots up for Stile. But Hair was aware of that. Stile, unaware, had been playing aggressively—and so those slightly changed returns had fouled him up more than his opponent. The more points he lost, the more aggressively he had played, aggravating the situation. A difference in ball velocity and travel so small as to be imperceptible to an on-looker could play havoc with a style like Stile’s.

He couldn’t handle it. Hair was good enough so that the paddle gave him the edge. Had Stile caught on early he could have played more conservatively himself, holding his lead, forcing Hair to make more aggressive shots that were increasingly risky. But with a 5-10 deficit that strategy wouldn’t work; Stile was the one who had to get aggressive. And lose.

He had been suckered, just as he had in the marathon detour. His opponent had outplayed him, off the grid. Stile was in deep trouble again.

So—he had to change his game. He had to go all the way defensive. He needed to allow time and distance to analyze each return individually. This wasn’t his normal game, but he had no choice now.

He tried. He had not played a lot of Ping-Pong recently—how could he, with all that had been going on in two worlds!—and had kept in shape only in his natural game. Offense. Spins, placements, slams, changes-of-pace—all fouled up by the marginal uncertainty of the variable-surface paddle. Now, thrown back on a long-neglected resource, he seemed to be in worse trouble yet. He lost a point, and another. 12-5. Soon the gap would be too large to close; sheer chance would give a few points to Hair in the end.

But Stile worked at it, making his shots high and central and safe. This set him up neatly for Hair, who quickly adapted to the situation and started getting more aggressive. Hair had more leeway now; he could afford to indulge a normally weak offense. Stile was only digging himself in deeper.

Yet he had to do it. He extended himself, despite twinges from his rib cage, adapting to this mode. He could judge the shots better now, for he was playing far back, and he was getting the feel of it. He did know how to do it; he had only to remember, to dredge up long-unused reflexes. He fought the next point, covering all Hair’s maneuvers, and won it. And lost the next. He still had not quite worked it out—and he needed to, because the point of no return was coming close.

The audience was hushed by this remarkable turn of the game. Now an announcer could be heard from the supposedly soundproofed telebooth. “. . . strangest Ping-Pong game of the season ... Stile, the favorite, far behind and playing as if he wants to lose it worse yet . . . will be an inquest to determine whether some-one has been paid off ...”

As if he didn’t have enough of a problem already! They thought he was throwing this game! That some other Citizen had proffered him lucrative employment if he missed the Tourney this year. Fortunately the computer analysis of the recording would refute that; all Stile’s lost points were honest ones. But if he lost, what difference would it make whether it were honest or dishonest? He would still be finished. In this world, anyway.

But that was not the way he wanted to depart Proton. He had to recover this game!

Stile played the next serve carefully, extending the volley. He needed practice at this defensive game, and the longer the volleys continued the more practice he would get. He won the point, bringing up the change of service at 13-7.

His turn to serve—but if he used it to take the offense, he would lose. He had to give up his normal advantage, for the sake of his strategy, not breaking his continuity.

He served gently—and heard the response of the audience. Most of the watchers did not know why he had been missing points, and thought he was being driven to defense by the strength of Hair’s offense. They thought he was foolish to throw away his principal weapon. The serve had always been his tool for the initiative. Some spectators were already leaving, satisfied that Stile had lost.

Hair was glad to continue the offense. He had nothing to gain by indulging in prolonged volleys. Now that Stile had neutralized the paddle-weapon, longer volleys would only give Hair more chances to make mistakes. He needed to put away his points quickly, before Stile got his defensive game in full shape, even if he lost two points for one.

But already Stile was strengthening. The volleys stretched out. Hair lost one, won two—but now he was sweating. Hair was not accustomed to continuous offensive, and as Stile’s resistance stiffened—technically, be-ame more fluid—Hair began to make errors of his own. The scales were balancing.

Still, Stile’s knees limited him, and his ribs. His reach was minimal in the best of circumstances, and was even more restricted now. He had not quite closed the gap in skills, in this inverted mode, and the game was running out.

They exchanged more points, bringing the score to 17-10 during Hair’s service. A seven-point deficit, with only four points to go for Hair. This was bad; if Stile did not rally now, strongly, he was done for.

Hair served. Stile returned it high and center, well toward the back edge so that Hair’s shot would have plenty of distance to travel. A setup for a slam, but not for a trick shot. Hair had to hit it hard and long. He did, placing it to Stile’s backhand, and Stile returned it with a smooth undercut. His ball arced over, slowing as it dropped, forcing Hair to strike with another undercut lest he lose control. An undercut, backspinning ball in Ping-Pong was a strange shot with special properties; it reacted in the air, on the table, and against the paddle, requiring careful handling.

In the ancient days of cork-, sandpaper- or rubber-surfaced paddles this was not too tricky; but as these gave way to foam rubber and specialized semi-adhesive synthetics the spin-imparting capacities of paddles had become devastating. It was possible to make a ball loop in air, or execute an almost right-angle turn as it bounced. However, such trick shots required skill and energy, and were obvious to a good player, who could then handle them with efficient counterspins. The spin on the incoming ball could be as devastating as the spin going out, making these surfaces a liability to the user, if he were not experienced. The key was to slip in spins that the opponent was not aware of—until too late, when he missed the shot.

Stile, playing back and often below the level of the table, had greater leeway in this respect, now, than Hair did. Hair knew it and was nervous—and doubly careful. He could not uncork full slams lest the hidden spin of the ball send them wide. Stile’s proficiency in the mode was increasing, and the advantage was coming to him, at last. But that seven-point deficit—

Stile delivered a swooping undercut sidespin ball that struck the table and took off at an impressive angle. But Hair was ready for it. He countered the spin in the course of a soft-shot. The ball barely cleared the net, and would have dribbled three times on Stile’s side before it cleared the table—had not Stile dived to intercept it in time. As it was, he got it back—but only in the form of a high spinless setup.

Hair pounced on his opportunity. He slammed the ball off the backhand comer. Stile leaped back to intercept it, getting it safely over the net—but as another setup. Hair slammed again, this time to Stile’s forehand comer, forcing him to dive for it. Stile felt a pain in his rib cage; he got the ball back, but at the expense of aggravating his recent injury. He was in extra trouble now! But he would not give up the point; he had worked too hard for it already.

Hair slammed again, driving him back. Had Hair been a natural offense player. Stile would have been finished; but these slams lacked the authority they needed. Stile managed to return it, again without adequate spin. Hair slammed yet again, harder. Stile re-treated far to the rear, getting on top of it, and sent it back. But he had misjudged; the ball cleared the net, but landed too near it and bounced too high. Hair had a put-away setup. Stile braced desperately for the bullet to come—

And Hair made a dropshot. The ball slid off his paddle, bounced over the right edge of Stile’s court, and headed for the floor. A sucker shot. Stile had fallen for it.

Stile, nonsensically, went for it. He launched himself forward, paddle hand outstretched. His feet left the floor as he did a racing bellyflop toward that descending ball. He landed and slid, his ribs parting further-but got his paddle under the ball three centimeters above the floor and flicked it up, violently.

From the floor Stile watched that ball sail high, spinning. Up, up, toward the ceiling, then down. Would it land on the proper side of the net? If it did, Hair would put it away, for Stile could never scramble back in time. Yet he had aimed it to—

The ball dropped beyond his line of sight. Hair hovered near, hardly believing his shot had been returned, primed for the finishing slam when the ball rebounded high. It was clearing the net, then!

Stile heard the strike of the ball on the table. Then hell broke loose. There was a gasp from the audience as Hair dived around the table, reaching for an impossible shot, as Stile had done. But Hair could not make it; he fell as his hand smacked into the net support. Then Hair’s shoulder took out the center leg of the table, and the table sagged.

Underneath that impromptu tent. Hair’s gaze met Stile’s as the robot scorekeeper announced: “Point to Stile. Score 17-11.”

“Your backspin carried the ball into the net before I could get to it,” Hair explained. “Unless I could fetch it from the side as it dribbled down—“

“You didn’t need to try for that one,” Stile pointed out. “I made a desperation move because I’m up against my point of no return, but you still have a six-point margin.”

“Now he tells me,” Hair muttered ruefully. “I don’t think of that sort of thing when I’m going for a point.”

“Your hand,” Stile said. “It’s bleeding.”

Hair hauled his paddle hand around. “Bleeding? No wonder! I just broke two fingers—going for a point I didn’t need.”

It was no joke. A robot medic examined the hand as they climbed from the wreckage of the table, and sprayed an anesthetic on it. Shock had prevented Hair from feeling the pain initially, but it was coming now. Little scalpels flashed as the robot went to work, opening the skin, injecting bone restorative, resetting the breaks, binding the fingers in transparent splint-plastic.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to finish the game,” Hair said. “I’m not much for left-handed play.”

“Stile—by TKO!” someone in the audience exclaimed. Then there was foolish applause.

Rung Five was his. Stile had qualified for the Tourney. But he did not feel elated. He had wanted to win it honestly, not by a fluke. Now no one would believe that he could have done it on his own.

Hulk intercepted them as they left the Game premises. He looked a little wobbly, but was definitely on the mend. He had a rugged constitution. “Stile, about that offer-“

“Still open,” Stile said with sudden gladness.

“Your girl was persuasive.”

“Sheen has a logical mind,” Stile agreed.

“I have nothing to lose,” Hulk said. “I don’t believe in magic, but if there’s a primitive world there, where a man can prosper by the muscle of his arm and never have to say ‘sir’ to a Citizen—“

“See for yourself. I’m going there now.”

“Stile, wait,” Sheen protested. “You have injuries! You’re worn out. You need rest, attention—“

Stile squeezed her hand. “There is none better than what you provide. Sheen. But across the curtain is a Lady and a unicorn, and I fear they may be jealous of each other. I must hurry.”

“I know about Neysa,” she said. “She’s no more human than I am, and why she puts up with you is beyond my circuitry. But now you have a lady too? A real live girl? What about my jealousy?”

“Maybe I broke in at the wrong time,” Hulk said.

“Do not be concerned,” Sheen told him sweetly. “I’m only a machine.”

Stile knew he was in trouble again.

“You are a robot?” Hulk asked, perplexed. “You made a reference, but I thought it wasn’t serious.”

“All metal and plastics and foam rubber,” Sheen assured him. “Therefore I have no feelings.”

Hulk was in difficulty. His eyes flicked to the lusher portions of her anatomy that jiggled in most humanly provocative fashion as she walked, then guiltily away. “I thought—you certainly fooled me!” He bit his lip.

“About the feelings, I mean, as well as—“

“She has feelings,” Stile said. “She’s as volatile as any living creature.”

“You don’t have to lie for me. Stile,” Sheen said, with just that stiffness of body and voice that put him in his place. She had become expert at the human manner!

“Lie?” Hulk shook his head. “There’s one thing you should know about Stile. He never—“

“She knows it,” Stile said tiredly. “She’s punishing me for my indiscretion in finding a living woman.”

“Sorry I mixed in,” Hulk muttered.

Stile turned to Sheen. “I did not know I would encounter the Lady in the Blue Demesnes. I did not realize at first what she was. I destroyed the golem that had impersonated me, but did not realize the complications until later.”

“And now that you do realize, you are eager to return to those complications,” Sheen said coldly. “I understand that is man’s nature. She must be very pretty.”

“You want me to look out for Neysa’s interest, don’t you?” Stile said desperately, though he had the sensation of quicksand about his feet. “She’s there in the Blue Castle, alone—“

“The Lady,” Sheen interrupted with new insight. “The Lady Blue? The one your alternate self married?”

“Oh-oh,” Hulk murmured.

Stile spread his hands. “What can I do?”

“Why couldn’t I have been programmed to love a male robot!” Sheen exclaimed rhetorically. “You flesh-men are all alike! The moment you find a flesh-woman-“

It’s not like that,” Stile protested. “She is devoted to the memory of her husband—“

“Who resembled you exactly—“

“She told me off when—“

“When you tried what?” she demanded.

Now Stile raised his hands in surrender. “If I stay here four hours longer—?”

“Eight hours,” she said firmly.

“Six.”

“Six. And you promise to return for the Tourney, after-“ ‘

“Yes.”

“That will give me time to put my own affairs in order,” Hulk said.

Sheen laughed. Oh, yes, she had her reactions down almost perfect now.